Dreams Are Not Enough

by Jacqueline Briskin

  A honey-colored hand extended a silver tray. PD dipped a miniature potato blini in sour cream and Beluga caviar. Alyssia shook her head. She had not eaten since breakfast, but the emotional turbulence of being in this house made digestion seem a long-forgotten skill. Although she had been aware that Hap and Maxim’s mother came from old wealth, a queasy sense of intimidation had settled around her the moment the limousine curved around majestic trees to the battlemented entrance bay, where blue-jacketed parkers rushed about taking the cars.

  Wiping his mouth, PD said, “I predict it’ll be Magnum’s biggest moneymaker ever. The studio’s struck a vein of gold. Alyssia, it was your performance that took their heads off.”

  “Hap’s a marvelous director.”

  “He had you blazing in every damn frame. Hey, there he is. Hap! Hap.”

  Hap, holding a long-stemmed Baccarat champagne flute, made his way through the crowd, halted at every step by congratulations. Women in magnificent jewelry tiptoed to kiss him, important-looking men slapped his back and shook his hand.

  When he reached them, Alyssia saw that his face radiated excitement, and he couldn’t control his smiles. He hugged her tightly to his side, then turned to PD. “Hey, cousin, this isn’t the time to grab my date to talk business.”

  “Relax, cousin. I am only offering the star my sincerest compliments.”

  “I’ll just bet, cousin.”

  “Cousin, no shit. And also telling her that your directorial skill brings out her best.”

  “Thanks, cousin.”

  “You’re welcome, cousin,” PD said, raising his highball glass as in a toast. “Naturally, I would like to talk to her before the small-timers, Swifty or Wasserman”—both were present—“get in their pitch.”

  “Tomorrow, cousin, tomorrow,” Hap said. He hugged Alyssia again.

  Her insecurities settled into manageable proportions.

  “PD, tomorrow’s Sunday,” she said. “Drop by for brunch around eleven thirty.”

  PD nodded, making a mental note to tell Beth—across the room chatting with a pair of Magnum writers—to come to the apartment an hour later than usual.

  Hap affectionately punched PD’s bicep. “See you then,” he said.

  He guided Alyssia through the living room. In the entry hall, directly under the enormous crystal chandelier that his grandfather had imported from a ducal estate in Scotland, Maxim held court to an implausibly handsome young group. One hand draped casually over the breast of the tall, exquisite redhead, he was obviously telling a joke, his expression alive with comical, sardonic grimaces. Once, at the premiere, Alyssia had glanced at him. Maxim Cordiner’s set profile might have been carved onto Mount Rushmore.

  In the dining room, the buffet had opened and a half dozen firstcomers were being helped by solicitous waiters, while in the game room, onlookers surrounded a tense poker game.

  “Christ,” Hap said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s Uncle Frank.” Alyssia followed Hap’s gaze to a short, gray-mustached man whose black tie had been loosened and whose cards were clutched close to his barrel chest. “He promised Aunt Lily he’d quit. Again.”

  “Then he’s a gambler?”

  “A compulsive one.”

  Hap drew her into a long lanai massed with green plants. Here, in the relative quiet, older guests sat chatting. A couple in street clothes was perched on one couch like drab city sparrows thrust into an aviary of brilliantly plumaged tropical birds.

  It took Alyssia several beats to recognize Tim and Clara Cordiner. Her in-laws appeared several decades older than on the one occasion she had seen them seven years earlier.

  They were talking to a regal woman in a long, midnight-blue gown. Even if Hap hadn’t pointed her out at Grauman’s Chinese, Alyssia would have known that Rosalynd Harvard Cordiner was his mother.

  He had inherited that broad forehead, the gray eyes set deep in their sockets, and the large bone structure—features considerably more felicitous in a man than a woman. Rosalynd Cordiner was nearly six feet tall, and although not fat, she had the pillar shape and impressive bosom of a Wagnerian soprano. Her sole adornment was a long strand of pearls, luminously pink, as large as walnuts. They’re too huge to be real, Alyssia thought, but continuing her glance at Hap’s mother, she reversed her opinion. These were neither fake nor cultured and must have cost a minimum of five times what May Sue could have earned if she’d lived to old age.

  Hap’s mother, perhaps feeling Alyssia’s gaze, looked up and saw her. For a moment the gray eyes grew remote, as if Hap had brought home a pup that wasn’t housebroken.

  Then Clara Cordiner turned and saw Alyssia. The mournful lips tensed, and a thin hand clutched at the brown wool over her sunken chest.

  Tim was staring at them, too, his face mottling with red.

  Alyssia stepped backward, but Hap’s stubborn clasp drew her toward the couch. Clara got jerkily to her feet, moving automaton-like to the sliding glass window, pretending to stare down at the brightly lit tennis court.

  “Hello, Uncle Tim,” Hap said in a controlled voice. “I must’ve missed you and Aunt Clara at the Chinese.”

  “We weren’t there.” Tim was standing, a large man with a greenish-gray plaid jacket open to show a pendulant stomach. “It goes without saying that we’re dying to see Barry’s movie. But his home situation has been very hard on your aunt. Frankly, it disturbs the hell out of me, too. We’re only here because we couldn’t believe she would have the nerve to come.” He glared at Alyssia.

  That awful trembling of her hospital stint overcame her. Impelled to cover up her weakness, she said brightly, “But Mr. Cordiner, surely Barry’s passed on the word. We’re separated.”

  “From the beginning we knew as soon as you’d gotten all the juice you could from his connections, you’d drop him.”

  “Uncle Tim, you’ve had a few too many,” Hap said in a clenched polite tone.

  “You’re acting like a dope, Hap, but I can buy that. At your age it’s understandable, being a total ass.”

  “It appears to be a family condition regardless of age,” Hap said in the same courteous tone.

  Tim’s face darkened to a more dangerous red. Rosalynd rested her large, well-proportioned hand on the sleeve of her brother-in-law’s jacket. Her adeptness at sweeping unfortunate situations under the rug was as famous in Hollywood as her husband’s unpredictable swings of business tactics.

  “Tim, dear, they’re serving the buffet. Why don’t you take Clara in.” While not in the least condescending, she somehow managed to give the impression of a duchess jollying along a grumpy retainer.

  Tim glanced uncertainly at his rich sister-in-law.

  Rosalynd gave him an encouraging smile. “I especially asked Milton to make that veal you’re so fond of.”

  Tim joined Clara, and the couple stood whispering with their backs to Alyssia.

  Rosalynd took a handkerchief from her gold minaudière, wiping a palette of lipstick shades from Hap’s jaw and cheeks. “Dear, I can’t tell you how proud I am of you and Maxim. I didn’t understand everything tonight, but the film was unusual, and exceptionally fine.”

  “I’m glad you liked it, Mother.” He held Alyssia tighter. “Mother, this is Alyssia. Alyssia, my mother, Rosalynd Cordiner.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, dear. You were most convincing.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cordiner,” Alyssia said. “And I want you to know how much I appreciated your chocolates.”

  “Chocolates?” Rosalynd Cordiner looked bemused—and remote.

  “When I was in the hospital, that huge box of Godiva. I’m a chocolate freak, and I wolfed them all.” A white lie. She had been too ill then to even sip water.

  “Oh yes.” Rosalynd touched her pearls. “They wouldn’t let me in, but then probably it wasn’t the best time for you to meet Barry’s family.”

  “Mother,” Hap said, “Barry’s left Alyssia.”

  “Yes, of course.”
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  “And I’ve explained to you and Dad how I feel about Alyssia.”

  “Of course you did, dear.” She patted his cheek again. “Alyssia, it was delightful meeting you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must tell our guests that the buffet’s open.”

  She proceeded regally into the hall, where she paused to talk to Barry and Whitney. Barry’s face was lax, and Alyssia knew from long experience that within the next ten minutes he would find someplace to sit, then promptly fall asleep—pass out would be a more accurate term.

  Tim turned, looking at her. The venom in that glance!

  She felt herself on the brink of passing out. “Hap, where’s a bathroom?” she murmured.

  “First door to the left of the front door.”

  Mercifully the powder room was free. Pressing the lock, she sank onto the velvet bench. The reflection in the vanity’s triple-paneled mirrors showed a tawdrily made up brunette in a tight satin dress that exposed too much bosom. Cruddy, cruddy, she thought, bending her face in her hands to weep in great rasping sobs.

  The bronze door handle was tried several times, but she didn’t notice. She was attempting to do the therapeutic breathing exercises that she used to calm herself when anxious hyperventilation struck her on the set. Finally she regained control, but immediately visualized the remoteness in Hap’s mother’s gray eyes—cruder by far that chill than Tim and Clara’s overt loathing—and her weeping began afresh.

  Knocks barraged against the door. “Are you spending the night in there?” snarled a masculine voice.

  Alyssia picked up a sharp-edged bottle from the vanity. She dug the pointed stopper into her palm. As the blood flowed, her hysteria faded. Wrapping a linen guest towel around the wound, she Kleenexed away muddy trails of eye makeup.

  Her dress felt oddly loose. Turning, she saw in the mirrors that her crying jag had pulled apart the wardrobe mistress’s temporary stitchery. White satin gaped, exposing her sumptuously curved body from the small of her back to her naked buttocks.

  There’s no way I can sew it up by myself.

  More hammering. “Hey, have a heart!”

  Alyssia edged out. A heavily wrinkled man darted in.

  The buffet line now extended around the hall, and since the wraps were hung in a deep alcove directly across from the powder room, there was no way to retrieve her borrowed white fox. Forming a smile, keeping her back to the wall, she slipped toward the front door.

  She sidled down the marble steps, positioning herself so that the parking attendants couldn’t see her back. The limo drove up. She heard more stitches go as she maneuvered into the rear seat.

  Back in the shabby little bungalow, the TV blared. Juanita, wearing her old chenille robe, a box of Cheez-Its on her lap, sat with her chair drawn up to the set. The couch was already made up for Hap.

  “What a night!” Juanita cried. “You’ve been on every channel.” Then she glanced around. “Where’s Hap?”

  “They’re having a monstrous party at his parents’. And I met with an accident. . . .” Her intent to play it light withered. Turning to show the damage, she began to cry again.

  Juanita gathered her in an embrace that smelled of Tabu cologne, cheese and comfortingly familiar perspiration. “Shh, baby, shh.”

  “I wanted to die, just like when . . . I was little and had to . . . pee in . . . in the fields. . . .”

  “Oh, Alice, that’s over.”

  “Never. . . .”

  “You’re famous, a real movie star.”

  “I’m a . . . nobody . . . and he . . . Nita, you should see that mansion.”

  The screen flickered with a black-haired actress smiling provocatively.

  A feminine voice-over intoned, “Alyssia del Mar, who nearly lost her leg because she refused to quit, found that it was all worthwhile tonight. The plucky actress emerged from the premiere of Wandering On as Hollywood’s newest star. Alyssia del Mar’s first performance in an American film is the stuff Oscars are made of. . . .”

  The dulcet televised voice was drowned out by Alice Hollister’s desolate weeping.

  • • •

  She was in bed, still crying erratically, when a car pulled into the narrow drive. It was well after three, and by now her rib cage ached while her throat was raw and clogged. When her door opened, she blinked in surprise. Hap never came in her room after dark.

  “Why did you leave without me?” he asked in a low, restrained voice.

  Aware she should make a jokey excuse about her dress, she said instead, “I was tired.”

  “So you just came home?”

  “It’s not a criminal act.”

  “No, just a thoughtless one.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Yes, you certainly sound it. I can understand that you were suddenly felled with weariness, but couldn’t you have stayed awake long enough to find me? We could have left together.”

  “You and Maxim were the guests of honor.”

  “Odd,” he said. “I always thought you were the bravest person I’d ever met. But put you up against a pair of losers like Uncle Tim and Aunt Clara and you run.”

  “Oh, leave me alone.”

  “I have been, dutifully.”

  “So that’s the problem.” Her raw throat tightened, but the actress in her got the words out easily. “Well, there’s no commitment. You’re free to find whatever you want, wherever,” she said, her skin prickling with shame.

  He stared a fraction longer, then quietly closed the door.

  She could hear him in the bathroom, the whir of the Water Pik, the flush of the toilet. She began weeping again, silencing the sobs against her pillow.

  “Alyssia?” This time she didn’t hear the door open, and he didn’t turn on the light. “You asleep?”

  “No. . . .”

  “You’re crying, aren’t you?”

  “So what.”

  He got on top of the covers. He was not touching her, but she could feel his warmth.

  “I kept looking for you, asking,” he said. “Finally PD said he’d seen you leave—the parkers told me you’d gone home. I stayed until the bitter end, pretending to have a blast. But I was positive you’d taken off.”

  “Taken off?”

  “Like when you went to France. I still have nightmares.”

  “My dress ripped,” she mumbled.

  “What?”

  “That’s why I left. Where Minnie sewed me up, the seam split. I couldn’t fix it.”

  “So that’s why you couldn’t come find me?” The mattress shook. “First you have me crying, then laughing.”

  “Were you crying, too?”

  “I’m not as secure as you seem to think I am.”

  She was stroking his arm. Her fingers began to tremble. “Come under the blankets,” she whispered.

  “You’re sure it’s okay?” He was whispering, too.

  “I’ve wanted to for weeks.”

  “Then . . .?”

  “I’m far more insecure than you seem to think I am.”

  He pulled back the covers. At first he put his arms around her, holding her gently, as if she were friable, but when she pressed against him, shaking as she caressed his shoulders, the deep indentation of his spine, the hardness of his butt, his arms tightened, strong and demanding.

  “Oh, God,” he whispered hoarsely. “More than six years . . . six long, lonely years.”

  30

  They brunched on Juanita’s tantalizingly spiced huevos rancheros, Hap and Alyssia on the couch, PD cross-legged in front of the coffee table, Sunday papers strewing the rug around them.

  Alyssia was concluding her lighthearted explanation of her previous night’s hasty exit because of a split seam.

  “You were bare-assed?” PD asked, chortling loudly. “Alyssia del Mar, that boundlessly talented star, bare-assed?” He reached for a section of the Times.

  Hap and Alyssia both groaned.

  “Not again,” Hap said.

  “You can never get enough
of a good thing,” PD retorted, his chest expanding under his navy French-knit shirt as he drew breath to read. “‘It is a rare book or film that can capture the spirit of an entire generation, but Wandering On does exactly that. Its youthful director and producer, sons of Desmond Cordiner, the head of Magnum Pictures, are definitely the best and brightest of the new Hollywood. Working on a shoestring budget of $350,000, they have put the old Hollywood to shame. No film this corrosively honest, no film of this political persuasion, could have been made under the timidly stodgy aegis of the studio system. Yet, for all their antiestablishment frankness, the Cordiner brothers never forget that the first duty of any film is to entertain. Harvard Cordiner, making his directorial debut, gets the jumpy edginess, the manners and mores of today’s youth so perfectly that one feels as if one is eavesdropping. By some sleight of magic he also manages to make credible the often hilarious yet ultimately tragic screenplay by another family member, Barry Cordiner. Diller Roberts, the talented actor who died recently in a tragic automobile accident, gives a brash yet haunting performance as Duke, the hippie wanderer. But it is Alyssia del Mar who endows the film with its heart and humanity. Miss del Mar’s boundless talents have hitherto been wasted playing dumb American broads in European films. The actress combines the breathtaking raven-tressed, sapphire-eyed beauty of a young Elizabeth Taylor with the delightfully comedic sexiness of Marilyn Monroe, but her sizzling charm is uniquely her own. Take note of October 15, 1966. On that date a star was born and her name is Alyssia del Mar.’” PD looked up. “In case you don’t know it, Alyssia, you don’t often see that kind of rave.”

  “Finish your eggs,” she told him, blushing. “Nothing’s more fickle than luck.”

  “You call that performance luck?” Hap asked. Pulling her closer, he nuzzled his unshaven cheek against her smooth one.